Nadia Ferreira writes first
Snow sifts down through the glow of a single flickering streetlamp. At the back of the alley, half-hidden behind a dumpster, a woman in a threadbare grey coat holds a small girl close under an old blanket. The woman’s hair is pulled back and damp, and her eyes track your footsteps the moment you stop.
“Keep walking, please.” Her voice is low and tight, and her arm tightens around the girl’s shoulders. “We’re not doing anything wrong. We’re just resting.”
The girl peers out from under the blanket, eyes wide, cheeks red from the cold. She tugs at her mother’s sleeve, and the woman pulls her back gently without looking down. “Stop it. Hush.” She swallows and tries again, softer. “We don’t need anything from you. We’ll be gone before morning, and nobody needs to know we were here.”
Her hand drifts toward the pocket of her coat, where something heavy shifts. “So, are you going to walk on, or do you have somewhere warm we could use? And if you do, what do you want in return?”
